


no one's gonna want you if you cry for help

by elektra



Category: Overwatch (Video Game)
Genre: Introspection, M/M, Pining, Pre-Relationship
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-10-25
Updated: 2016-10-25
Packaged: 2018-08-24 13:18:57
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 695
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8373682
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/elektra/pseuds/elektra
Summary: Hanzo watches McCree unload his gun every night.





	

Hanzo watches McCree unload his gun every night.

Every night, before stashing it in a drawer, more dutiful than a rite, more solemn than a funeral procession. There was a certain thorniness about McCree in the low light shroud that the ocean being burned alive in sunset threw atop him, so much so that perhaps tomorrow a wreath of black roses should be brought.

Morbid.

The scent of the sea curls Hanzo’s stomach and mind alike.

Hanzo had once appreciated order and ritual, when there had been none. When Genji had been chided for running amok to seemingly no tune but the one in his airy head, and Hanzo was the princeling who was too stuffy in the head to see that he had no schedule -- only a self-appointed greater importance to systematic chaos. These days, he is repulsed by the strict regime meditation follows for the sparrow he should never have shot off a power line. He is consumed with unsettling, unspoken ennui when the days drag long and muddy with sameness.

He watches McCree’s oily fingers drag soot across his revolver, rotating the cylinder and messily catching the bullets with such practiced expertise that it, too, seems boring now. How many times has he done this? How many times has he awoken in the morning, to load it, and then to undo his work for the next time?

Hanzo once thought it a matter of showing off. Pride. Everyone had pride. Control.

It was -- control. Not over how Hanzo saw him, how _cool_ he was perceived to be, but how easy it was for a raven wraith of the night to slip between the gaps in the vents and kill him with his own _“doggone pistol.”_

_“Isn’t it a revolver?”_

_“-- Wuh’ever.”_

Whatever, then.

If only whatever could be the proper response to dangers of the soul.

When the deed is done, and McCree’s sad little smile is offered, there is again a safety in usual procedure. The drawer is closed and so is any questioning or lingering gaze.

Hanzo pushes himself off the sturdy, plain cabinet and turns on the lamp. It sputters to life, a bright daylight bulb challenging the congealing seagull sunset that tinges McCree bloodier. He draws the window shade with a decisive motion, cannot stand to look at the repetitive ocean that make-believe rocks the entire base at night. Doesn’t the ocean get tired? Of doing the same thing? How many times has it rolled, has it waved, has it eroded?

Then a storm strikes, sometimes, to break the current.

McCree attempts to hang his hat off the lamp, but it casts an ominous half shadow, and he pretends to think twice about exposing the leather to electricity heat like that with a colourful interjection. Hanzo watches it all, by the window, wishing it was open so he could tumble out of it backwards and be the typhoon that shakes up McCree’s current.

“What’s on the menu for tomorrow mornin’s barrel fever?”

And McCree wishes he could -ism the ghosts away, disguise it all under an endearing phrase for good country hospitality or hangovers, but his was a tale that packed South, mottled gothic, and went stone cold.

“Bourbon. Please.”

Just a light tip of a bottle that’s been going strong at half empty (nothing was half full anymore) for the few months Hanzo has been asking for it. Enough to cover the bottom of a glass, not enough to be worth remembering in the morning.

They sit together.

McCree doesn’t light a cigar at this time, not often. The smoke detectors are an inconvenience, and he has other habits that are more pressing.

Hanzo thinks to water the arrangements of camellias he’d set on the bedside table, but thinks not to bother, now that they’re going out of season. He isn’t sure why he considered it a good idea, to bring flowers. All things die. All things rot and must be thrown into the open ocean.

He wants to slip his hand from where it’s cautiously shelved between his folded knees, and even just press its back to McCree’s...

But he so often elects not to water things.

**Author's Note:**

> haha. oh man.


End file.
